


Don't Look Back

by glockenspielium



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen, New Years Eve, The unstoppable Donna Noble, and the glorious Martha Jones, heavily implied lesbians, how have i never shipped them before?, its sad ok, kisses and champagne, look just don't think about the timeline too hard, new years eve is a sad time for us all, pre-Stolen Earth, the doctor certainly doesn't mind, the sequel needs some jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 00:10:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5561239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockenspielium/pseuds/glockenspielium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Donna have an exclusive invitation, and a big night ahead of them.</p><p>[for the 2015 doctor who secret santa]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Look Back

“Yeah, black tie, of course.”

Donna, one hand curled comfortably around the flux regulator, the other quickly scanning the surrounding systems, and a phone wedged between her raised shoulder and her ear, gives the Doctor a wink as he bounds into the console room, bringing him to a halt. A wink, that can’t be good. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as she mutters a few more missives into the phone before deftly snapping it shut with her chin and catching it with her left hand.

Quickly pulling the TARDIS to a halt in their current trajectory, she enters some new coordinates and sets the time-course for landing in (as the Doctor comes to peer over her shoulder) precisely two hours. Looking up to meet his curious gaze, she gives the Doctor a brilliant grin.

“Impressed yet, alien boy?”

He shrugs, but can’t help smiling widely back at her.

“By now, I should really know better than to leave you alone with a manual deemed by almost everyone as ‘impossible’.”

That seems to please her, and she turns on her heel and heads right out of the console room, the Doctor hot on her heels.

“Black tie?” He inquires.

“I’m hoping you’ve got something suitable here that will fit,” she shoots back, as she pulls open the door to the wardrobe, “But if not we can always pop by my place and grab that pink thing I wore to Narelle’s wedding, but honestly after the mess I made with the cake, I’m not entirely sure it’s still wearable, even after a dry cleaning that cost me a weeks pay.”

She’s started rooting around in the 13th century robes again, and the Doctor gently takes her by the shoulder and redirects her to the formal wear. She bats off his hand gently, and begins pulling out several long dresses, tossing them onto a nearby chair, followed by several pairs of heels.

“I assume you have a tuxedo for when you have to pretend to be James Bond, yeah?”

“I don’t pretend- oh what’s the point. Yes, I have a tuxedo.”

She grins back over her shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Well then get out of here you pervert, you may want to watch but I have to start working on some very challenging and flattering undergarments.”

But the Doctor stays his ground, hands on his hips, doing his very best to look powerful and as if he is the one who is hundreds of years older, has conquered and gained respect from multitudes of different alien species and is the owner of their current mode of transport.

(Not that the TARDIS would appreciate him claiming to own her, but it’s what he’s implying that matters anyway.)

“Donna. Where are we going?”

She waves a hand at him.

“You can read co-ordinates, can’t you?”

“Yes, London, Earth 2009, 31st December, 6pm local time-“

“Well aren’t you a clever clog.”

“ _Donna._ ”

She strides over to him, wrapping a black tie around his neck and deftly fastens it into a soft bow.

“ _We_ are going to a ball.”

 

 

 

On the second attempt, the TARDIS lands perfectly outside the function centre, and the door swings open to reveal a pair of parked motorcycles beside them and a rather smartly dressed young UNIT doctor awaiting their arrival.

“Martha!” Donna’s exclamation is greeted with open arms, pulling her in for a tight hug and a prolonged squeeze. Even if exchanging notes and tips over message has been fun, it’s been far too long since they’ve seen each other face to face. The last time the Doctor and Donna had tried to take Martha out for lunch, it had rather messed up her compulsory evening shift, and then there was Martha’s engagement party, after which they’d been stuck in the seventh quadrant for a few months- it’s been far too long, by any measure. 

“So good to see you again,” Martha smiles up at Donna, “And surprisingly precisely on time?”

“Well, I’ve learnt the hard way not to trust the Doctor when it comes to allocating time for party preparation-“

“Oi? Right here behind you?” The Doctor waves from the TARDIS entrance and Martha releases Donna to go over and hug the Doctor around his middle, resting her head against his chest. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you.” She murmurs. The Doctor beams down at her.

“Martha-“

“Hush you, I was talking to this gorgeous tuxedo.”

They have to wait almost ten minutes for Donna to finish squalling with laughter at the Doctor’s crestfallen face until they can finally make it into the foyer.

As the clerk takes their coats, Martha coos over Donna’s choice of long, golden gown, three straps falling over her shoulders and upper arms, plummeting to a deep neckline at the front, the thick fabric falling in folds over her hips and barely skimming the floor. For once, Donna doesn’t seem to have a witty retort immediately, but once they have moved through to collect glasses of champagne, leaving the Doctor to argue with security over the safety of allowing him through with his sonic screwdriver, she does make a short comment about Martha’s rather neat military formal wear.

Martha shrugs.

“It was compulsory for all UNIT members, and I figured this way I don’t have to worry about looking nice or anything.”

And if Donna notices the bare fourth finger on her left hand, she chooses not to comment on it at this point.

Instead, she links her arm through Martha’s pulling her through to the main hall.

“Let me tell you, Martha Jones, some people will do anything for a girl in uniform.”

“And you know this, how?”

She winks heartily, and tosses her long hair over one shoulder.

“That’s a story for when you’re older, or when I’ve had several more glasses of this lovely stuff.

This time they’re both cackling as they make their way down the stairwell, the Doctor finally catching up at the base of the stairs, hair sufficiently more on end than when the evening had started.

“What did I miss?”

 

 

 

The hall is bustling with UNIT soldiers, medics, administration and all manner of workers, decked out in their military finest, and their guests dressed up to the nines for the occasion. There’s a small jazz band tickling away at some soft, familiar tunes in one corner, and round tables arranged around a large dance floor, which for the most part seems to be covered in small clusters of chatting people, with no dancing occurring at all. As Martha leads them through the crowds, calling out greetings to her friends and introducing Donna and the Doctor to a few as they pass by, she finally brings them round to their table, which is on a raised platform with three others, giving them an excellent view of the entire room.

“Now this is what I call a party,” says Donna enthusiastically, “How come you’ve never taken me before to this UNIT stuff?”

The Doctor fumbles a reply- “Well, er, you see it’s just that-“

“They stopped sending him invitations in precisely 1982, when his payroll with UNIT was terminated on account of him never bothering to collect the cheques.” Martha smirks at him. “But I was able to pull some strings for this one, particularly given your recent contributions to UNIT’s most significant mission.”

“And I’m very grateful for the invitation, Dr Jones.” He pulls her closer and squeezes across her shoulders. “It’s been way too long.”

She nods her agreement, and they stand in silence for a moment, watching together as the room continues to fill. The Doctor suddenly seems to remember something, pulling back from Martha, a grin on his face.

“Oh Martha! I-“ but then he catches Donna’s furtive glance and subsequent quick shake of the head.

Martha tilts her head, confused.

“Doctor?”

It’s hard to know what could be wrong with his query, but so far Donna has (mostly) proved to be correct when it comes to these things, so he changes tact. 

“Martha, would you like to have the next dance with me?”

She looks down to the ballroom floor and rolls her eyes at Donna, who chuckles in reply.

“Sure Doctor, only this music is hardly suitable for dancing, and there’s no where to dance, and it certainly doesn’t look like we’re meant to be dancing yet, the band is starting at eight and there’s certainly some schedule-“

The Doctor cuts her off with an overly gratuitous brandish of his sonic screwdriver in the direction of the sound system, which immediately begins playing a very upbeat jazzy tune, and with Martha accepting his other hand, they make their way down to the dance floor, slowly edging the conversing groups out of the way with some kind of dance that might have once intended to be a foxtrot or a salsa, but definitely looks good fun, and soon several others are joining in with them.

Donna sits down happily at their table, plonking her sequined bag on the table, enjoying the way the smile on Martha’s face seems properly wide as she spins around to crash into the Doctor’s frame, before spinning out again- and then giving the Doctor a turn to twirl.

A song later, and a rather gorgeous corporal sidles up to her table, and turns beet red before asking her if she’d have the next dance with him.

She stands, brushing down her dress and straightens the cap across his brow. 

“You betcha, handsome pants!”

 

 

 

Somewhere between the second course and the band arriving, Donna and Martha trail off towards the bathroom, leaving the doctor to help set up the speakers to connect with the saxophone, despite the musician insisting that it was a traditional instrument with no auxiliary connections.   

The bathroom is as grand as the hall room, and Martha sits on a rather plush couch while she waits for Donna, who has decided at some point after visiting the ancient greeks that powdering one’s face is actually quite sophisticated, and is currently applying a light layer of personalised powder from the Tring Sphere to her nose, grimacing at her reflection.

“Now, I’m only going to ask once, so if you don’t want to answer just say, okay?”

Martha looks hesistant, but determinedly scrunches her face.

“Okay.”

Donna comes and sits beside her, tucking the power and brush back into her bag.

“Do I need to go after him with a ten-foot chainsaw and get the Doctor to give me the coordinates of the seventh layer of hell, or are you going okay?”

With a long, steady sigh, Martha ops to lean her head heavily against Donna’s shoulder, who sits patiently until she’s mustered up a reply.

“It’s just, we were so happy and so in love, and everything was so perfect- until one day, it was like we just woke up and realised, it wasn’t perfect, and it had never been.” She sits up again. “You know? And actually we’d both been more and more stressed and antsy at each other and hadn’t even realised it.”

Donna just nods and places a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Martha runs a hand through her hair, flicking the ends up off her collar, before placing both hands onto her knees and leaning forwards.

“But we had a wonderful time, and he is such a genuinely lovely, caring and brilliant person, I don’t think I could bring myself to hate him even if he did deserve it.” She turns her face up to Donna, a small sad smile on her lips. “So in answer to your question, no- but I definitely appreciate the sentiment and will keep it in mind.”

“Good.” Donna squeezes her shoulder. “Life’s been certainly more interesting since I found where the TARDIS stores the Doctor’s gardening equipment. 

This time Martha actually laughs, and then pulls the pair to their feet, brushing her fingers briefly beneath her eyes.

“Speaking of which, lets go rescue that poor band from his attempts to bring the speakers into the 35th century, shall we?”

 

 

 

There’s a great bustle as the countdown to midnight is unexpectedly heralded by a particularly enthusiastic young lieutenant, somehow having managed to scale on of the decadent balconies, hanging inelegantly from the decorative curls of embellishment, the remains of his once full glass of champagne tilting dangerously in his outstretched hand. 

“FILL YOUR GLASSES, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND ALL OTHER DESIGNATIONS BETWEEN- MIDNIGHT IS NIGH!”

His call was greeted with whoops and cheers from the crowd below, as soldiers and civilians scrambled to find alcohol, or perhaps a specific someone they'd hoped to pass into the next year beside. From where he'd been seated for the past twenty minutes, the doctor watches happily as they fill these last minutes of their tiny human year with a sudden purpose, not for the first time in the evening reminded of why he has such particular affection for the inhabitants of Sol 3.

He wanders from the table to the railing in front of it, the jacket of his tuxedo mislaid somewhere between the tango with Benton’s nephew and Donna’s attempts to hoist Martha onto his shoulders to affix a small bustle of mistletoe to a chandelier.

Also not for the first time this evening, he wonders why he spends so many days so far away from their home planet. Donna seems so happy here amongst the bad attempts at ABBA dancing and the champagne cocktails, and everyone here appreciates her magnificence, if only through default respect for him- but he is certain that after a minute and a half of conversation with the woman herself, any interest in the time lord is lost in her dramatic retelling of the time “..and he finally took me to a planet, wait for it; _literally_ covered in hat shops!”

Donna and Martha find their way back to him, both a little pink in the cheeks, with a spare glass of champagne to push into his fingers (and a spare bottle of the nicer stuff, that Martha carefully places on the table behind them). 

As the crowd swelling beneath them starts at twenty, fists and glasses pulsing into the air with every descending number, he notices Martha’s hands fidgeting on the railing. Donna’s had a quick note to him about the previously pending engagement and he followed her advice- a hearty four-minute hug was certainly easier than any attempt to talk to her about marriage at any rate. But he had no clue what earth customs dictated at this point, and despite his best attempts to nudge Donna gently with his elbow, she seemed insistent on just nudging him back and giggling, which was really not helping with anything.

The numbers are slipping away now and before he can formulate a clever plan, it’s suddenly zero, and crackers emerge from nowhere, showering them all in glitter and streamers, and then Donna passes her champagne glass to him, eyes fixed on Martha, and he can just hear her above the din below call out-

“You know what? Sod it all,” and grab Martha’s face and give her a hearty kiss on the lips.

It takes twelve seconds longer than the Doctor might have expected it to, but the warm smiles that greet him when they finally move apart make it worth the wait.

The two lips that descend on either cheek a moment later aren’t so awful, either.

He should really bring Donna back more often, he thinks cheerily as they both wind up back on the dance floor, smashing out the monster mash with a small dance crew of the youngest male recruits, even just to catch up with Martha, and maybe he could introduce her to Sarah Jane and K9.

With a quick flick into his pocket, he slides the ribbon of his 500 year diary into 2010.

At the very least, he can bring her to back for the 31st of December in a year’s time-

 

That shouldn’t be too hard to remember.  

  


End file.
